mr. chill.

No “I’m back” quip, just a story time

I used to work at a bank. Okay, I still work at a bank, but shhh. This is my story.

At this bank I worked on the tech side of an old payments system, FSV for the payments nerds reading this, with only a few experts left in-house. Which meant whenever we made changes there was a good chance something would go wrong. To fix anything that goes wrong: you take it out, fix it, and put it back out… on a Saturday. This is generally met with groans and disappointment. My reaction, “it’s fine, things happen, let’s fix it.” After a while the team nicknamed me Mr. Chill based on my calm response.

Why’d I share this story? Because it makes me look good, duh.

For those of you less self-centered than me, it’s a reminder. We can’t all freak out when the world burns. In those moments the world needs a Mr. Chill. Choose to be Mr. Chill.

break ice ⚒️ 

Here’s an Inconvenient Truth…

• icebreaker: “What music have you been listening to less?”

• favorite reply: “I don’t really like music.”

• abi: HUH. I’m going to leave it at that.

words 🗣️

listen 🎧️ 

abi: If it isn’t clear, I’m on a Naval kick right now. He aspires to live based on his values instead of his incentives. Nick lays out a world of tirelessly working at obvious unsolved problems even when you have more than enough. For both of these gentlemen, the joy is in the journey.

write 🖋️ 

the internal cast

INT. AIRPLANE CABIN — OVERHEAD VIEW

A grandpa is peacefully sleeping in the cabin of a 737. His elbow comfortably lodged in my sternum as he nods off. A mom’s knees dig through the polymer seat into my back. Every line from my headphones is punctuated by her baby’s wail. “I thought you were trouble when you walked Wahhhhh walked Wahhhh trouble Wahhhh.” When I get up for some space, a flight attendant nicely but tersely asks me to please return to my seat. Frustrated, my brow furrows and I feel my heartbeat rise.

Take a deep breath Abishek. Put yourself in their shoes.

I shift and grumble as my joints ache, I can’t wait to get home. Never taking the middle seat again. I’ve forced myself to endure the middle seat so my wife can sit comfortably by the aisle. I bundle up in my blanket, and close my eyes. Why is that guy next to me touching my elbow? Weirdo.

My ears ring. If the concert days didn’t give me tinnitus this baby will. My bleary eyes open to familiar site of my dear child. I desperately beg them to stop crying, if not for the other people, for myself. I want some goddamn sleep. Shifting to the left and right, I struggle to make myself comfortable. I put my knees up and feel my shoulders relax. There’s a momentary break in the screams, and I nod off.

I open my eyes and this charming tattoo-donned Indian man is standing in front of me. Why are the cute ones always annoying. I shake my head, “Sir, please return to your seat.” I see his brow furrow and prepare for a familiar outburst, I breathe a sigh of relief when he nods and silently drops his cup in the trash and plops back in his seat.

Now we have our cast. I thought I was the main character of Lemony Snicket’s next novel. Turns out I’m just a side character. I’m going to take a bite of this dark chocolate quinoa crisp, turn up my music, and try to get some shuteye.